Secret
by Catsitta
Summary: There was a reason why he kept his hair so long. Oneshot. Companion to 'Touch', but can be read alone.


**A/N:**

People were wanting a happy sequel of 'Touch'. I'm afraid this happened instead. Maybe I'll make this into character analysis series of Oneshots.

**Read with care. Ideologically sensitive material ahead.**

**Disclaimer:** I still own nothing

**Secret**

**By Catsitta**

People often asked him why his hair was so long.

It was a question he had heard since he was a small child; when Hojo would twine his fingers in the silver length and mutter under his breath. Sometimes this treatment and that question came with a nod of approval, and other times, the Professor would yank Sephiroth down to the ground by the grip he had on his hair and ask if he secretly wanted to be a girl.

He remembered few moments without pain at the man's hand. Admiration or curiosity or even approval often came paired with some torment or another. Needles, scalpels, drills, saws, electroshocks, toxins, fire, hammers, swords, spikes, wires…the list when on and on.

But the pull on his scalp by the closest thing he had to a father held an impact that cut deeper than any blade ever could. Sephiroth never knew why it struck him so, or why he felt compelled to keep his unusual mane despite Hojo's actions. All he knew was that Hojo was an evil man, the very one who sought to break him in a hope of creating perfection.

And in many ways, he succeeded.

Hojo turned him into a monster. A weapon. A one man army that no one else could compare to.

One that was bitter and cold.

One that never faltered.

One that seemed immune to any ounce of pain—physical, mental or emotional.

Pity it was all an act. A shell to hide what lied deep within.

A fear of touch. A fear of being alone. A fear of acceptance. A hatred of himself. Of what he had become. Yet hopeful for the future. Angry at the world. Saddened by his failures…

Sephiroth was not without emotion, by far. He was not without his faults. And, perhaps, he owed it to his friends who insisted in saving him from isolation. And perhaps, he owed it to his so called father who pushed him into the depths of hell too many times to count.

Or, perhaps, he owed it to another. The very man that broke his resolve. That made him look into the mirror and shudder with disdain. That made him want to hide behind a mask of perfection. That made his fear of touch a nightmare that was inescapable. That made him who he was today.

It was because of this man that he grew his hair to an extraordinary length. Otherwise, Hojo might have convinced Sephiroth to cut it long ago, if only to avoid the intimacy that was the pull of hair.

That man was President ShinRa.

Sephiroth was only thirteen when it happened, just a spindling boy, lean and awkward with youth. The scientists would often mention how beautiful he was, not handsome. He was tall with high-bones, youthful features, large eyes and a shock of pale hair that swept low between his shoulders. His limbs were long and his build sleek, and he knew that he possessed more grace than the typical woman. It was not his fault. Or perhaps…it was.

His memories of those years were clouded, only returning to him in moments of panic when his skin brushed against that of another.

But after more than a decade, Sephiroth could piece together enough of that day to know that it was better forgotten.

After all, who wants to remember their own rape? Especially when it was wiped from his memories, like a whited-out stain amongst a sea of grey, better missing than inked in again.

Then again, who can forget once it returns? How can you forget being drugged to the brink of unconsciousness, only to be thrust into the office of the monster whose touches always lingered and whose gaze always felt like a slime across your skin? Who would forget being helpless…powerless…unable to move, or speak, much less fight back? Who would forget the flight of all sensation as the unimaginable happened and all you could do was wait for unconsciousness to claim you?

Who could forget waking up….unable to remember a thing?

He never knew, not for years, the reason why his dislike of touch became a paralyzing fear. Or why his childish rebellion of keeping his hair long became an obsession of sorts, like a blanket of comfort…or a strand connecting him to a missing part. But when he remembered, Sephiroth kept it to himself.

A little secret.

Yes, just a little secret.

No one needed to know.

Not until he understood why he would never cut his hair. Not until he understood why that day shattered him into a million pieces. Not until he understood could he learn to repair the damage. Fix what wicked men did to turn him into the man he became.

When that day came, Sephiroth decided, he would shed the weight that rested between his shoulders and his knees.

He would let himself free.

But freedom, he feared, would always flip between his fingers.

**fin**

**A/N:**

**Word Count: **830

Please review!


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